Page 3 of Preferential Treatment

Pride and indomitability radiated off of her like an ancient Slavic goddess. It didn’t help that the sun coming through the windows had cast her in a pool of morning light, turning her hair the color of old gold, making her eyes snap like blue flames, while she was wrapped in twisting vines and glaring at him like she’d smite him off the face of the earth, given the slightest provocation. Wary and brittle, she might have been a defeated goddess, but she was all the more dangerous for it.

Mikhail shifted slightly in his seat, resisting the need to reach down and readjust himself. He didn’t normally respond to a woman so viscerally—at least, not without more pointed inducement. But this woman, just by instinct, had set him on fire in a way that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The pressure of her hand around his wrist was a lingering ghost that he could still feel. Her undiluted scorn when he’d overstepped her bounds was still a hot simmer beneath his skin. Calling her here had been an erratic impulse. Mikhail did not generally surrender to impulse.

His needs, such as they were, went through long dormancies. He could go months, even years, without wanting a woman. But eventually, that need would reawaken, and the urge to satisfy it was all-consuming. With most women, he could burn through the desire in a matter of days, content to be over with it and alone again for a long time. Some women lasted longer, teasing out his needs with practiced skill, keeping his fire stoked for months at a time. But in every case, the arousal preceded the woman. He felt the urge, and then he sought a suitable companion to satisfy it.

With this woman, it had been entirely backwards. It’d been more than a year since he’d last succumbed to his libido, and there’d been no signs that his comfortable celibacy was going to be disrupted any time soon. But then her hand, finely wrought and unexpectedly strong, had closed around his wrist, and lightning had shot straight to his cock, reawakening him with a brutal vengeance. He’d never wanted any particular woman. He’d only ever needed the services they provided. But in the hour since she’d grabbed him, Kate Pasternak had consumed Mikhail’s mind to a maddening, inescapable degree.

“A proposition?” Her frown deepened. She didn’t fidget or flush or fill the silence with uncomfortable chatter. She simply stared him down, cool and regal, demanding an answer with the cut of her gaze.

“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate further, curious to see how she would react.

A flash of annoyance crossed her face, but she quickly dampened it. “I’m not being fired?” she demanded, with none of the humility he might reasonably expect to hear in such a question.

“Why would you be fired?”

A humorless smile pulled at one corner of her red-painted mouth. “Are you enjoying this game?”

God, she was perfect.

“Forgive me,” he said, indulging himself just a little by imagining himself as a supplicant to her vengeful goddess. “You’re right. Let me be straightforward. I have a proposition for you. It is a sensitive topic, and for that reason, I am offering payment in exchange for your discretion in the matter.”

Some of the scornful pride faded from her eyes, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“Regardless of your answer to my proposition, I will pay you to keep this conversation between the two of us. Name your price.”

The scorn returned. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I assure you that I am not. Name your price.”

She stared at him for a long moment, skeptical and distrustful. “Five thousand dollars,” she said, clearly throwing out what she thought was an unreasonable sum.

“That’s selling yourself short,” he replied. “Let’s make it ten thousand.”

The skepticism in her eyes deepened. Sunlight glided over her features as she strode towards him, gaze locked with his, searching for a lie. She stopped just in front of the desk, disbelief and distrust written in her expression. Mikhail leaned back, straightening his spine under her perusal. He picked up his phone and called his personal assistant, putting the call on speaker.

“Yes, Mr. Volkov?” she answered in her usual brisk, professional tone.

“Sarah, arrange for ten thousand dollars to be transferred from my personal discretionary account to whichever account Kate Pasternak deposits her paychecks.”

“It will take me a minute. Would you like me to call back when it’s done?”

“Just a confirmation text will be fine. Send one to the number we have on file for Ms. Pasternak as well.”

“Will do. Anything else, Mr. Volkov?”

“No. That will be all, thank you.” He closed the call, raising his eyebrows at the woman standing before him.

In the hour since he’d seen her, he’d done his research. Katrina Rose Pasternak—thirty years old, never married, no children. Born in Antigo, Wisconsin. Associate’s degree in logistics, with a technical certificate in supply chain management. Thirty-four grand in credit card debt, a little over eleven grand tied up in a personal loan, and nearly twelve grand in medical debt. An apartment, where she lived alone, whose rent outstripped her means.

She was a woman who suited his needs perfectly. And he was a man who could meet hers—at least where money was concerned.

She narrowed her eyes as she considered him. “Ten thousand dollars for a yes or no question?”

He nodded.

She was quiet, thinking. He waited, tense with anticipation.

Finally, she laughed, half-skeptical, half-amused. “Sure. Ask away.”

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